Something Borrowed, Something Blue
by CosmicZombie
Summary: Thomas/Jimmy. Jimmy accidentally wears one of Thomas' shirts. Things are never quite the same again.


Jimmy didn't think anything of it at first. In fact, he didn't even notice that the pale blue shirt was with his pile of clean laundry for days— not even when he pulled it on as he hurriedly changed to go down to the village on an errand. He didn't realise that the shirt wasn't his until he was halfway down the lane to the village with Alfred, when he suddenly became that he could smell unfamiliar, sharp cologne.

"Are you trying out some new aftershave?" Jimmy frowned, looking questioningly at Alfred as they walked.

"No," Alfred replied, his brow knitted together in confusion. "Why do you ask?"

"I can smell cologne— cologne and cigarettes."

"Neither of us is smoking," Alfred pointed out.

"Oh, well observed, Alfred," Jimmy retorted cuttingly. "I had actually noticed that."

He frowned again, trying to locate the source of the mysterious smell. It was quite nice, actually. Very nice. In fact, Jimmy thought that it was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Are you sure?" Jimmy pressed, sniffing the air suspiciously.

"Am I sure that I'm not smoking?" Alfred blinked, looking at Jimmy with a touch of concern in his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure."

"No— no," Jimmy snapped impatiently. "Sure you aren't trying out some new aftershave?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Alfred repeated slowly, still looking vaguely worried. "I can't smell anything. Is it a bad smell?"

"No," Jimmy replied, inhaling deeply. "It's actually quite nice."

It was; it was quite a seductive smell, although Jimmy wasn't quite sure why. It was subtly smoky and heady in contrast with the sharpness of the cologne, and lingered intoxicatingly in the air around them, clashing with the delicate spring sunshine. Jimmy actually rather liked it— but the mystery of it was frustrating him.

"Well, what's the problem, then?" Alfred frowned.

"Nothing, there's no problem," Jimmy muttered. Then he added, "Shut up, Alfred," for good measure.

They walked in silence the rest of the way down into the village. It was a beautiful spring morning— a cloudless blue sky and gloriously yellow daffodils waving on the grassy verges in the slight breeze. The clouds looked as though they'd been freshly laundered, and the air was light and fresh; Jimmy could smell the sweet hint of blossom on the trees and freshly cut grass— and that goddamn smoky, sharp, heady scent that he couldn't place at all, yet found inexplicably appealing at the same time for reasons he could not fathom.

He hoped that it would fade as they left the country lanes and entered the village for the peace of his mind. However, it plagued him all the way round the village with Alfred, and even in the vegetable shop and the butcher's it still somehow managed to be seductive. By the time they eventually started back up the lane to Downton, laden with bags of groceries for Mrs. Patmore, the smell was as present as it had been when they had set off— and Jimmy was in a thoroughly bad mood.

"It's so hot," Alfred commented, panting slightly as they reached the top of the little hill towards gardens.

"Your powers of observation are flawless, Alfred," Jimmy said snappily. The unseasonal heat wasn't helping his mood; he was far too hot in his tweed jacket and cap. After a few more paces, he decided it was no good and ground to a halt, dumping the grocery bags on the ground and starting to unbutton his jacket.

"Is that a new shirt?" Alfred asked conversationally, stopping to do the same.

"What?" Jimmy frowned, peering down at himself.

"You don't usually wear blue," Alfred shrugged, taking his own jacket off.

"It's not mine!" Jimmy exclaimed as he realised, much to his surprise and confusion, that he didn't recognise the shirt he was wearing at all.

"You've stolen a shirt?" Alfred blinked, wide-eyed. "Jimmy, you can't just go around stealing shirts!"

"I didn't steal it!" Jimmy cried angrily, staring down at the shirt in utter confusion. "I don't understand why it's here!"

"Well, you must have put it on this morning."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, Alfred!" Jimmy snarled, fixing Alfred with his best glare.

"Someone's laundry must have got mixed up with yours," Alfred nodded wisely. "It happened to me a couple of months back— only I noticed before I put the shirt on."

"Well, whose is it?" Jimmy frowned. Then a sudden, horrible realisation hit him. Slowly, he raised his arm to his face, sniffing suspiciously at the powder blue sleeve. Instantly, the slightly alluring, mysterious smell of cigarettes and sharp cologne was stronger, sultry and intoxicating.

"Mr. Barrow's," Alfred announced, and Jimmy dropped his arm as if it had been burnt, staring incredulously at Alfred.

"_What?_"

"Well, mine would be far too big on you, and Mr. Carson's and Mr. Bates' would be too. Mr. Barrow is the closest size to you, and I remember him wearing a pale blue shirt on his day off last week. Jimmy— what are you doing?"

Jimmy was yanking at the buttons of his shirt in horror and tugging the shirt off over his head before the buttons were even properly undone. He felt sick, he felt appalled; he'd been wearing Mr. Barrow's shirt all day and thinking how _nice_ it had smelt. He'd been wearing the same fabric against his bare skin that had been against Mr. Barrow's bare skin, and he'd been sniffing the cologne and smoke all bloody day and actually finding the smell of _Mr. Barrow_ attractive.

"Jimmy!" Alfred was staring at Jimmy as though he'd lost it. "Jimmy, what in the name of heaven are you doing?"

"I have to go!" Jimmy blurted, ripping the shirt from his body and throwing it at his feet, leaving him bare-chested and panting slightly. Without a moment's hesitation, he turned on his heel and began sprinting towards the house, leaving Alfred standing in the middle of the lane with several bags of groceries, Thomas Barrow's shirt, and an extremely confused expression.

…

Of course, Jimmy just had to run into Mr. Barrow when he stumbled into the yard several minutes later, panting and sweating, and of course— still wearing no shirt. He slid to a halt, narrowly avoiding colliding with Thomas, who was leaning easily against the wall, smoking. Jimmy suddenly felt horribly aware that he was half-naked and dishevelled. He only hoped that the flush of his cheeks could be blamed on the fact he'd just run half a mile in minimal clothing.

"Jimmy," Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly, smoke curling from his mouth. "It would appear as though your outing with Alfred took rather an unexpected turn."

"I— that's not what— Alfred isn't—" Jimmy stammered angrily, wiping the sweaty hair off his forehead and glaring at Thomas, suddenly furious. "You smell!" he blurted, brandishing an accusatory finger in Thomas' direction.

"Excuse me?" Thomas asked coolly, eyebrows raised.

"You heard me!" Jimmy exclaimed furiously. He stuck his nose in the air and stormed inside past the completely bemused Thomas.

It was only when Jimmy had slammed his bedroom door shut behind him and slid down onto the floor, breathing hard, that he realised he had his tweed jacket clutched in one hand. In retrospect, it would probably have been a good idea to have put that on rather than running shirtless all over the grounds and yelling at innocent bystanders. Although Mr. Barrow wasn't really an innocent bystander, was he? It was clearly all his fault for smelling so bloody nice. If he hadn't smelt so nice none of this would have happened and Jimmy would not be sweaty, shirtless, and humiliated.

Jimmy spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to wash the heady scent from his skin, and by the time he sat down to supper in the servants' hall, he couldn't look either Alfred or Thomas in the eye. He couldn't look at Alfred because he had witnessed Jimmy's temporary departure from sanity, and he couldn't look at Thomas because he had caused it. It wasn't Jimmy's fault that he had been unknowingly and appreciatively sniffing the under-butler's shirt all day.

In fact, Jimmy felt hugely embarrassed about the whole thing. Perhaps he had over-reacted a little— but he had just been so appalled to find out that the appealing scent he'd been appreciating all day in the village had belonged to Thomas Barrow. He'd actually found Mr. Barrow's scent_attractive_. But that didn't mean he found _Mr. Barrow_ attractive, of course— Jimmy could see that now that he was thinking more clearly. Mr. Barrow and his scent were completely separate. Completely. Jimmy could be attracted to one thing and not the other. It was completely normal to find the smell of a shirt alluring. Completely normal.

The worst thing was, though, that Jimmy couldn't get the smell out of his lungs even now, when he was dressed in what was definitely his own shirt and Thomas wasn't even sitting near him at the table. But it was alright. Jimmy was strong. He could deal with it in a completely mature and sensible manner. He was in control.

"Pass the potatoes please, Jimmy," Thomas said curtly from across the table.

Jimmy promptly turned puce, upturned the tureen of potatoes and managed to stick his elbow in the butter all in one movement.

But it was fine. He was in control. Buttery, but completely in control.

…

"Alfred. Alfred!" Jimmy hissed, knocking as loudly as he dared on the footman's door considering it was well after midnight. "_Alfred_!"

Jimmy had been lying awake for the past several hours, tossing and turning, utterly unable to get rid of the smell of Thomas' shirt. He didn't know why, but he just couldn't stop thinking about it; he could still smell it on himself, could almost taste it on the tip of his tongue. It was driving him crazy.

"_Alfred_!"

Seconds later, the door was opened, and Alfred peered out blearily into the darkened hallway, confusion written across his features.

"Jimmy?" he blinked sleepily, squinting in the darkness. "What— what's going on?"

"I need the shirt," Jimmy blurted.

Alfred stared at him for a moment, taking in Jimmy's somewhat dishevelled appearance and wide eyes.

"… Your hair's all funny, Jimmy."

"I couldn't sleep," Jimmy snapped. "Now just give me the damn shirt!"

"What shirt?" Alfred frowned sleepily. "Have you been drinking again? Mr. Carson knows it was you who took the bottles last time."

"Mr. Barrow's shirt, the one I was wearing today and— uh— left with you in the lane. And no, I have not bloody well been drinking," Jimmy snapped.

"Oh," Alfred said, comprehension dawning on his features. "I put it in the laundry basket when I got back. … Jimmy?"

But Jimmy was already halfway down the hallway towards the laundry room. He spent the best part of half and hour rifling through every possible basket he could find, but it was to no avail. The blue shirt remained unfound, and eventually Jimmy was forced to trail back to bed, feeling even more angry and frustrated than he had done before he'd got up to knock on Alfred's door and demand the shirt.

…

If the pervious day had been bad for Jimmy, the following one was terrible. For starters, he was in an utterly foul mood due to his lack of sleep, and then there was the added worry that he was still obsessed with Thomas' shirt. He'd sort of hoped it would have gone away when he woke up, but it was even worse than when he'd gone to sleep.

The desire to find and smell the shirt again was actually manifesting itself like some kind of drug or addiction. Jimmy had wondered fleetingly whether this was because the nicotine of the faint scent of smoke on the shirt was to blame, but after smoking half a box of cigarettes and feeling no better (well, considerably worse, actually— Jimmy was not an experienced smoker), he had to conclude that it must be something else. Whatever it was, Jimmy thought best to put to the back of his mind and just concentrate on satisfying his urges to find the smell again.

He knew that his chances of finding the blue shirt were slim now that the laundry had been done— so when Thomas had gone upstairs to dress his Lordship after breakfast, Jimmy snuck back up to the servants' quarters. Guilt curdled in his stomach for a moment before he pushed past it and opened the door to Thomas' room. Jimmy didn't feel proud of his actions, but he didn't really see what other option he had— he just had to find a shirt that smelt as good as the one he'd accidentally worn yesterday. It was really just to check that it had smelt amazing. That was it. And it was all Thomas' fault anyway.

Jimmy opened Thomas' closet door and was just trying to select a shirt from the several white ones hanging neatly, when there was the sound of voices in the hallway. In alarm, Jimmy grabbed the closest one and darted out into the hallway to his own room, slamming the door shut behind him, heart thudding in his chest, shirt clutched in his hands.

With a sudden sense of anticipation, Jimmy gingerly lifted the fabric of the shirt to his nose and inhaled.

Instantly, a faint scent of smoke and sharp cologne stung Jimmy's sense, making him feel dizzy. Oh god, it was even better than he'd remembered. It was potent and musky and ridiculously seductive, and it made the smallest hint of arousal curl in the pit of his stomach, shocking him.

With difficulty, Jimmy carefully folded the shirt and stowed it under his pillow before leaving his room and hurrying upstairs, hoping Mr. Carson wouldn't notice that he was late.

…

"Why are you in such a hurry to go to bed?" Thomas called after Jimmy as the latter practically ran up the stairs to the men's quarters. "You're usually the last one to go up."

"I'm tired," Jimmy lied, trying to ignore the anticipation curling in his stomach.

"You seem very enthusiastic about being tired," Thomas remarked coolly.

Jimmy scowled. "Leave me alone," he said huffily, going into his room and closing the door without wishing the other man goodnight.

He checked immediately to see if the shirt was still safe under his pillow; it was. Jimmy sighed in relief, taking it out and putting it on the vanity beside his bed. He was in control. It was all fine. It was perfectly normal to steal people's shirts and smell them and think about them all day. It wasn't like it turned him or anything— _that_ would be weird.

It took Jimmy hours to fall asleep again; even though he'd removed the shirt from under his pillow and put it on the vanity, he could still smell the smoky cologne on his bed sheets. It was intoxicating; the scent caught in Jimmy's throat and made it hard to breathe, made his heart beat faster and faster in his chest.

With a groan, Jimmy turned over, trying to ignore the way the potent scent of cologne and smoke turned his thoughts into dizzy circles and made his cock harden between his legs. It was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, that the mere smell of faint smoke and Mr. Barrow's cologne came together to form such an arousing scent. Jimmy had no idea quite was happening, but he definitely wasn't going to bring himself off to the smell of Mr. Barrow's shirt. Definitely, definitely not, because that would just be weird. He was not going to do it. Absolutely no way.

It was never going to happen. Not even this once.

Okay, well, maybe just this once.

…

Over the following week, it became something of a guilty habit. Jimmy didn't quite know how it had happened— one moment he had accidentally put on a shirt that hadn't belonged to him, the next he had been thrown into a full blown obsession about the smell of smoke and cologne. It was ridiculous, it was insane, and the worst thing was that the shirts lost their potent scent after a day or so, which meant that Jimmy was forced to keep liberating them from Thomas' room.

He knew it was getting out of control; and he knew that Thomas was running out of shirts. He wasn't quite certain what was going to happen when there were none left. All Jimmy knew was that he was gradually spiralling out of control.

Things all came to a head two weeks after the day where Jimmy had walked down to the village with Alfred and had first smelled the intoxicating scent on the shirt he was unintentionally wearing. Jimmy had snuck into Thomas' room just before the supper gong was rung— but just as he was opening the closet to take a shirt, he heard the door snap shut behind him.

His heart skidded to a horrible halt as he saw Thomas standing in front of him, expression unreadable.

"Uh… hello, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy offered tentatively.

"What are you doing in here?" Thomas demanded.

"I… I— uh— I was looking for my cards," Jimmy lied, because really, what was he meant to say? That he'd accidentally worn Thomas' shirt and smelled it and now stole shirts from Thomas' closet every day because he felt worried that he might die if he didn't. It all sounded a bit ridiculous and improbable, really.

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "I never borrowed your cards."

Jimmy paled. "Well… I just…"

"Yes?"

"I… Oh god damn it, just let me smell your shirt!" Jimmy clapped a hand over his mouth in horror that he'd actually spoken the words.

Thomas blinked. "Excuse me?" he asked quietly, and Jimmy felt his cheeks burn.

"You see, for some reason— uh— I— I quite like the smell of your shirts."

"Have you been taking them?" Thomas demanded, a look of realisation dawning on his face. "Is that where they've been going?"

"… No…"

"You've been sneaking into my room and stealing my shirts so you can sniff them."

"Possibly," Jimmy admitted.

Thomas looked completely perplexed. "And have you examined your motives for this?"

"Not really," Jimmy bowed his head. "I was more concentrating on sniffing the shirts." And doing other, less innocent things— but he didn't mention that.

A smile pulled at the edge of Thomas' mouth. "Jimmy Kent, you are far weirder than I could possibly have imagined."

"I'm not weird!" Jimmy huffed indignantly, then stopped as he realised, perhaps Thomas did have point. He wasn't quite sure what had come over him the past week. Quite frankly, he was a little scared at the intensity of the obsession that had taken him over so suddenly.

"Much as I would like to debate that with you, I have to go back upstairs before dinner," Thomas said, moving slightly towards the door. It was then that Jimmy suddenly caught a potent lungful of the scent he'd been thinking about ever since the day he'd accidentally worn Thomas' shirt down to the village— much more intoxicating that it had been on any of the shirts he'd liberated from Thomas' closet.

"What on earth are you doing?" There was a tone of distinct alarm in Thomas' voice; Jimmy had seized him by the lapels and suddenly squashed his face against Thomas' chest, inhaling the smoky, sharp scent and feeling the warmth of Thomas and the increased beat of his heart.

"Can I please borrow your shirt?" Jimmy breathed, pulling back a little. This one smelt the best by far; it was more intoxicating than any of the others; the smoke more seductive, the cologne more alluring, and there was a subtle heady quality to it that was the best of all and made Jimmy's stomach twist in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm actually wearing it right now," Thomas replied incredulously, but his voice was a little more uneven than usual. "Have you been drinking?"

"No," Jimmy lied. After all, it had only been a little bit to try and console himself. In retrospect, perhaps he should have waited until he was more sober to come into Thomas' room on the shirt search. "But I would like your shirt. Please."

"If I give you it, will you stop stealing all my other ones?" Thomas sighed.

Jimmy nodded enthusiastically, stepping back a little as Thomas reluctantly started unbuttoning his livery.

"Here you go," Thomas said, holding out his shirt.

Jimmy took it and pressed it to his nose, sniffing. But he was met with disappointment.

"It doesn't smell as good as it did a moment ago," he frowned, staring at Thomas.

"Are you saying that I smell?" Thomas raised his eyebrows.

But Jimmy wasn't listening. A horrible, horrible realisation was dawning on him; it wasn't the shirts. Oh god, it had never been the shirts. It was Thomas. It had been Thomas all along. It was _Thomas_ that smelt so alluring, _Thomas _that he was attracted to, _Thomas_ that he was utterly and completely and ridiculously obsessed with.

"… Jimmy?"

For a moment, Jimmy just stared at Thomas who was standing, shirtless, in front of him. It suddenly all seemed painfully obvious. The pallor of Thomas' bare skin made his blue eyes and black hair strikingly vivid, and Jimmy could see the slightly increased rise and fall of his chest. Thomas; handsome, inscrutable, clever Thomas who smelt of cigarettes and sharp cologne and just _Thomas_. And Jimmy wanted him. Jimmy had never wanted something so much in his life, and he felt almost ashamed that it had taken him so long to realise that it was Thomas he was obsessed with, rather than the man's shirts.

Without further hesitation, Jimmy reached up to cup Thomas' face in his hands, and stood on his tip-toes to press his mouth against the other man's.

It was better than Jimmy could possibly have imagined. Thomas' mouth was hot and soft and he could _taste_ the scent he'd been craving ever since that day he'd accidentally worn Thomas' blue shirt. It was far better than anything Jimmy had ever experienced, and far, far better than stealing Thomas' shirts and sniffing them in secrecy. Jimmy groaned slightly into the warmth of Thomas' mouth and pulled him closer, sliding his tongue into Thomas' mouth and feeling Thomas' hands wrap around his waist, pulling him closer so that Jimmy was pressed up against his bare chest.

However, after a few moments— much to Jimmy's distress— Thomas pulled away, breathing unevenly.

"Jimmy… what's this all about?"

"I wore your shirt by accident and it smelled really good and I got a little obsessed but I realise now that I wasn't aroused by your shirts, I was aroused by you. I mean, obsessed. And aroused. I mean—"

"You're insane," Thomas shook his head, but he was smiling at the same time, and his hands were still on Jimmy's waist.

Jimmy would have protested indignantly, but then Thomas' lips were pressing softly against his again, and all coherent thought (not that there had ever been much of it anyway) vanished from Jimmy's mind. He responded enthusiastically, winding his hands round Thomas' neck and deepening the kiss. It felt amazing; Thomas' body pressed up against his, Thomas' hands on his waist. He could feel Thomas' smiling against his mouth, and would have felt offended if he hadn't been so ridiculously happy.

Ironically, after that Jimmy came to hate Thomas' shirts because in his opinion, the fewer clothes Thomas was wearing, the better.


End file.
